


young god

by jasondean



Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, POV Second Person, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 13:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4961662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasondean/pseuds/jasondean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you know, the two of us are just young gods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	young god

**Author's Note:**

> am i writing too much heathers fanfiction? i think i'm writing too much heathers fanfiction. i might edit this with a second chapter of JD, veronica, and the rest of the gang in the afterlife at prom if i feel like it.

                You play with her hair as you hold her close to you, breathing in her perfume as your lips works against each other. You trace your hand along her back, feel her shiver even though it’s so hot it’s almost unbearable as you both fumble around in the stuffy car. Your hands are playing with her bra clasp when she pulls away, a strand of hair falling in her eyes as she catches her breath.

                “JD, this is it, you know? This is it,” she’s saying to you and she cups your face and looks at you like you’re a walking tragedy, the fucked up boy she can fix with the right amount of hugs and kisses. And you look at her with a smirk because you know she’s lying, it’s not it, it’ll never be finished. “It’s _done_ ,” she says harshly when she sees your playful expression.

                But Veronica, she doesn’t know. There’s always going to be assholes, Heathers and jocks who are only good for date rapes and AIDS jokes on their off-season. There’s always going to be dads who beat their sons and murder their wives. There’s always going to be a broken boy with a broken mind who doesn’t know whether to turn the gun on himself or on the rest of the world.

                There’s always going to be someone who deserves a bullet through their head.

                You purr an agreement lightly, and she relaxes a bit and gives you a soft kiss, her hands roaming from your face to your chest and to unzipping your pants with careful fingers. And you’ll make her beg and sigh and moan to distract her from your blood-stained hands but it’s only a matter of time before she sees past the feelings you spark in her and realizes she’s been sleeping with a monster.

* * *

                Veronica can block out your words all she wants, but you know the truth. You know what she wants. You _know_ the look, her overcast expression and a smile eerily tugging at her lips. Make up a fake story about ich luge bullets and let her subconscious take over, because she’s much purer than you, she can’t stomach the thought of killing in cold blood. But you can push her along and you know it’s what she wants, because Heather was a bitch and those assholes nearly ruined her reputation.

                You need a smoke. The pastor is droning on and on about the loss of the two football players, quickly glossing over the story you and Veronica planted at the scene. And something about a dead gay son. You’re thinking it’s pathetic and all, but you need out, _now_. The church is suffocating you with bad memories of a funeral attended by only you and your father, as the shithead effectively isolated both yourself and your mother by moving you all around. You weren’t the only one, you realized with dry eyes but a clenched throat as you watched a casket with no body being lowered into the ground, who had no one, that could never speak to anyone about the man that was supposed give you love but instead gave you chaos.

                Veronica finds you after the funeral smoking a cigarette and sitting cross-legged against your motorcycle, exhaling the fumes as you look blankly into the evening sky. You’re supposed to be strong enough to rid the world of its bullies and fiends, not fighting tears and the ever-growing urge to vomit.

                She sinks to the ground next to you and holds you, kissing your forehead and then your cheek and you both sit in silence and watch the funeral crowd disappear. It’s funny she bothers touching you after all that’s happened. Doesn’t she know she’s the spark and you’re the bomb?

                “No more of these funerals, you promise?” she asks you again, as if you might have forgotten her request back in the car parked at the scene of the crime. You want to laugh, because you’ve underestimated her naiveté. Instead of replying, you put out your cigarette and leave it in the pile of ash that’s been collecting.

                “Promise?”

                “Promise.” She seems convinced and kisses you, then stands up. You join her, stuffing your hands into your pockets. She’ll find soon enough your pledge is riddled with holes, but she’ll forgive, you’re sure. It has to be done, you tell yourself as she walks away and you climb onto the motorbike. How else can you carry it out? You always have to be one step ahead of her.

* * *

                 She’s too clever. She’s broken your heart but you’re still in awe at her valiance and her sharp mind, and standing with a gun in her shaky hands with blood trailing from a cut on her head and soot making her a mess, she’s sexier than ever. Veronica, she knows, deep in her heart. You’re meant to be hers, she’s meant to be yours. You can see it in her tired eyes and when she briefly considered the murder of Heather Duke. She wants to clean the slate as much as you do.

                If only she’d put down the fucking gun already.

                “It’s all over, JD. Help me stop it.”

                But it’s not over, it won’t ever be over. Every war has casualties, she has to realize that. As long as Westerburg stands, there will always be Heathers and there will always be Marthas. You wonder if the words coming out of your mouth sound as desperate and fake to Veronica as they sound to you. Who fucking cares. This is the end of the line… That finger isn’t gonna grow back, after all.

                “You know I’m right, darling,” you tell her, and she sucks in a breath, like she might say something more. Probably curse you out, but she doesn’t have the guts and she looks away from you, to the bomb. You see the temptation and you laugh. Ofcourse you’re right. You’re _always_ right.

                “Our love is God,” you remind her, and she lowers the gun… But not before shooting at your foot.

                You yelp but the blood pooling out your foot and your hand is nothing compared to your relief. Oh, she finally gets it. This is the only way, Veronica.

                “Fuck you,” she spats, letting the gun clatter to the ground.

                And the world disappears in a blast of fire.


End file.
